It’s hard to write. The great writers of the world make is seem so easy. Thoreau, Hemmingway, Twain. They wrote and wrote and inspired some of the greatest works ever. As a reader it looks so easy. When I try though, words simply don’t float off the page like I intend and instead when I try to put pen to paper the words come out jumbled and not like whats in my head. The greats make it look easy and for an aspiring wannabe writer everything is much harder.
For one, how I write matters. Completely sober equals no motivation and no words. However, a few drink in and the entire process seems to work. Does that mean I can’t write except in a certain state? Maybe. It certainly doesn’t hurt the process. But that’s a problem in itself. The state I find myself in when my creative juices are flowing are often when I am in my worst states of mind. I don’t trust myself in those states as I lie to myself. But here we are, those moments tend to be to most honest. And when I am most likely to write at all. I’ll never write a great work that is taught in high school and frankly that isn’t my goal. Instead, I aim to write about me and the, what I hope are, profound thoughts I have.
In a world dominated by social media and an attitude that focuses on “look at me,” I simply want to catalog my thoughts and burn off the random thoughts that fill me constantly. As a result, if you are reading this please know it was never intended for you the reader. Instead, it is meant as a way for me to express myself and hold a mirror up to myself.